You said nothing. She was the one to break the silence. ‘I ran away. I escaped to the centre, inside the fire that rages at the circumference of life.’

27

The foreign woman is pinching the girl’s cheeks. She has leaned over so far that her long skirt is sweeping the ground. They give her a battery case to sit on. I step back inside, off the balcony.

The foreign woman is still there when I go back out. She is sitting on the battery case. And the family are sitting around her, on the pavement. The little girl stands on tottering legs, staring at the foreign woman in astonishment. She really is worth staring at. The sunlight is blinding on her white skin. Both the skirt and top she has on are white. A multicoloured Jaipur scarf is draped around her throat. Perfect proportions, strong build. She might be German. Her shining red hair is piled high on her head. A Rajasthani sling bag hangs from her shoulder, covered in shells and tiny mirrors.

She is explaining something to the woman, waving her hands. She takes the little girl in her arms. Lighting a cigarette, she offers it to the woman’s husband. She kisses the little girl’s filthy cheek.

A few days ago, standing on that part of the pavement while I waited to cross the road, I’d noticed that the little girl’s ears and nose had been pierced. It made me recoil in horror. What kind of unreasonable behaviour was this? How it must have hurt – now, she won’t even allow her mother to wipe her nose. It must still be hurting. I watch the foreign woman take tissues out of her bag to lovingly wipe the dark green mucus streaming down towards the child’s lips.

It appears that she is making the family a proposition, one which they aren’t quite willing to accept. The husband and wife smile doubtfully at each other.

I’m worried that the foreign woman wants to take the child away. I cannot guess how or on what conditions she plans to do it. But I realise I reek of burnt flesh. The scene appears incredibly vulgar. I come away.

The child has grown quite a lot over the past few months. However filthy she might be, one look at her plump fists and you want to cuddle her. Her smile is just like the fronds on her flower-print dress. When I go downstairs, she catches sight of me and ducks behind the tree. Then she peeps out, smiling shyly. But when I go up to her, she looks away, trying not to smile. I’m surprised at the way her eyes sparkle with intelligence. At such times I long to take her away, to teach her to read and write. To give her a full meal. To give her brushes and paints. To teach her Rabindranath’s songs …

Even after leaving the balcony I fret. What’s going on? What does the foreign woman want?